About a Girl
Chapter Two
I have this really inconvenient habit, this tendency to read too far into what is said to me. Ms. Gilbert, our psychology teacher, assured us that this was normal, that all teenagers show a narcissistic personality, so much so that we over analyze things that may somehow affect us. This causes us to put a lot of thought into things that don’t really matter, which is an uncontrollable, unmanageable waste of time that could be better spent.
It is this egotistical, self-centered behavior that drives me up the wall.
I couldn’t help but try to decipher what that cashier had meant during our short conversation.
I actually wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a conversation; a lot of what she had said to me was merely protocol, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d said those words over a dozen times in the past hour alone. I wish I could’ve believed she was just doing her job.
But it’s never that simple, is it? No, one has to take into account her body language, including her posture, her eye movements, and her use or lack of gesticulation. I could even consider the tone of her voice and her inflection, picking apart syllable by syllable to discover any underlying sarcasm or spite. I didn’t stress over it to that extent, but I’d be lying if I said I slept easy that night.
Over the course of the next few days, she was on my mind. The what ifs and should haves pulled on me like a nagging child on a mother’s sleeve, begging for attention, pleading for some thoughts to go their way. It’s highly unadvisable to ponder the possibilities of alternate outcomes of events from the past, because that’s a one way trip down a bad road. But that doesn’t mean that it’s easy not to.
I searched for her at school, scanning the halls each time for silky dark hair and soft eyes. I figured it was a long shot that I’d find her here; I know of at least twenty-four high schools in that city. For all I knew, she could’ve gone to Kuempen.
Kuempen is a Catholic school not too far from my own East Valley high, notorious for raising assholes on the basis of “I go to church so I’m not going to hell”. It has tuition of 3 grand and uniforms requiring shudder inducing khaki pants or skirts, yet rich kids continue to flock there to avoid going to public school. The truth is, when you go to Kuempen, you’re no better than a public school kid.
After a mere two days, I cracked, meaning that I decided I had to go back to that bookstore. What I needed was closure, not her. I needed to know that there was either a chance or no hope between us, and either one would it would be the last time, like a first time heroin addict heading back to mother’s milk for that initial relief.
I skipped the bus in order to get there, knowing that I’d regret this on the frigid walk home. But right at that moment, it didn’t really matter, and my shaking hands and restless heart kept me warm anyways.
The bell atop the door announced my entrance, resonating highly despite the small space of the business. I glanced behind the counter, and seeing that she wasn’t there, promptly exited, walking home with the tremors fading.
You would think that’d be the last time, a sure sign from the gods that it was simply not meant to be. Whether it’s due to the fact that I was a prophet, or that I merely fail to pick up the obvious, I crawled back again, as soon as the next day.
It was a particularly cold afternoon, and I don’t just mean cold, I mean Chicago cold. The wind was giving its worse, and the snow pummeling down onto my parka, the flakes being absorbed the moment they reach the coat.
When I reached my destination, I wasn’t entirely surprised to see that she was again not there. I pushed down the possibility of her quitting her job, repressing the idea that I’d never see her again
Nevertheless, I roamed the aisles with little purpose, again using the store as a shield against the brutal winter. I stopped every few shelves to read a title, occasionally even the back, before replacing the book and proceeding with my wandering.
As I passed by the register, the cashier, a black teen who looked to be my age, asked, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Um…” I muttered. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets, curling my fingernails into my palms silently. The boy was staring at me, not with menace or judgment, but out of concern.
“Are you here for an application?” he questioned, gesturing to the stack of papers at the left hand corner of the desk.
I replied before I could process the question, answering, “Yes.” I headed over to him, and he handed me an application, pen and clipboard, explaining that I could fill it out there if I’d like.
I sat in the back pocket of the store, still unsure as to why I lied. Maybe it was because I’d had hopes of meeting her through the job, or perhaps it was just that I was anxious and didn’t know what else to say. After all, I’ve never been known for my interpersonal skills.
I completed the form before I could think too hard, handing it back to the guy and leaving. He told me good luck, assuring that I had a good shot at the job. I had brushed it off, walking home with the wind singing.
It is this egotistical, self-centered behavior that drives me up the wall.
I couldn’t help but try to decipher what that cashier had meant during our short conversation.
I actually wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a conversation; a lot of what she had said to me was merely protocol, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d said those words over a dozen times in the past hour alone. I wish I could’ve believed she was just doing her job.
But it’s never that simple, is it? No, one has to take into account her body language, including her posture, her eye movements, and her use or lack of gesticulation. I could even consider the tone of her voice and her inflection, picking apart syllable by syllable to discover any underlying sarcasm or spite. I didn’t stress over it to that extent, but I’d be lying if I said I slept easy that night.
Over the course of the next few days, she was on my mind. The what ifs and should haves pulled on me like a nagging child on a mother’s sleeve, begging for attention, pleading for some thoughts to go their way. It’s highly unadvisable to ponder the possibilities of alternate outcomes of events from the past, because that’s a one way trip down a bad road. But that doesn’t mean that it’s easy not to.
I searched for her at school, scanning the halls each time for silky dark hair and soft eyes. I figured it was a long shot that I’d find her here; I know of at least twenty-four high schools in that city. For all I knew, she could’ve gone to Kuempen.
Kuempen is a Catholic school not too far from my own East Valley high, notorious for raising assholes on the basis of “I go to church so I’m not going to hell”. It has tuition of 3 grand and uniforms requiring shudder inducing khaki pants or skirts, yet rich kids continue to flock there to avoid going to public school. The truth is, when you go to Kuempen, you’re no better than a public school kid.
After a mere two days, I cracked, meaning that I decided I had to go back to that bookstore. What I needed was closure, not her. I needed to know that there was either a chance or no hope between us, and either one would it would be the last time, like a first time heroin addict heading back to mother’s milk for that initial relief.
I skipped the bus in order to get there, knowing that I’d regret this on the frigid walk home. But right at that moment, it didn’t really matter, and my shaking hands and restless heart kept me warm anyways.
The bell atop the door announced my entrance, resonating highly despite the small space of the business. I glanced behind the counter, and seeing that she wasn’t there, promptly exited, walking home with the tremors fading.
You would think that’d be the last time, a sure sign from the gods that it was simply not meant to be. Whether it’s due to the fact that I was a prophet, or that I merely fail to pick up the obvious, I crawled back again, as soon as the next day.
It was a particularly cold afternoon, and I don’t just mean cold, I mean Chicago cold. The wind was giving its worse, and the snow pummeling down onto my parka, the flakes being absorbed the moment they reach the coat.
When I reached my destination, I wasn’t entirely surprised to see that she was again not there. I pushed down the possibility of her quitting her job, repressing the idea that I’d never see her again
Nevertheless, I roamed the aisles with little purpose, again using the store as a shield against the brutal winter. I stopped every few shelves to read a title, occasionally even the back, before replacing the book and proceeding with my wandering.
As I passed by the register, the cashier, a black teen who looked to be my age, asked, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Um…” I muttered. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets, curling my fingernails into my palms silently. The boy was staring at me, not with menace or judgment, but out of concern.
“Are you here for an application?” he questioned, gesturing to the stack of papers at the left hand corner of the desk.
I replied before I could process the question, answering, “Yes.” I headed over to him, and he handed me an application, pen and clipboard, explaining that I could fill it out there if I’d like.
I sat in the back pocket of the store, still unsure as to why I lied. Maybe it was because I’d had hopes of meeting her through the job, or perhaps it was just that I was anxious and didn’t know what else to say. After all, I’ve never been known for my interpersonal skills.
I completed the form before I could think too hard, handing it back to the guy and leaving. He told me good luck, assuring that I had a good shot at the job. I had brushed it off, walking home with the wind singing.